


We were but promises fulfilled

by CorsetJinx



Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Mischief, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 07:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: A look at the beginning, middle, and end of Krishna's life; as told in short bursts.





	1. Chapter 1

Devaki pants in the aftermath of the birth, shaking and sweating with her eyes closed against the rest of the world. Vasudeva, much as he might wish to, cannot linger long enough to wipe the hair from her face or soothe her frayed nerves. The baby has been born and he only has so much time to act before Kansa sends someone to do the job themselves. So he goes, barely wrapping the child (his child, Devaki’s child, their child, the promised eighth) and praying to the gods for speed and stealth as he slips out of his and his wife’s shared cell. Mercifully, his new son does not cry.

As he passes hallways that should have guards and tries to convince himself not to question this sudden change of fortune, Vasudeva silently prays that this child might be able to forgive him too.

It takes an act of strength greater than he’d thought to hand his son over to his brother. Nanda Baba’s expression fills with understanding, with well-intentioned pity, as Vasudeva’s hands struggle not to linger on his son’s tiny body. He could almost swear that the babe’s eyes (already open, curiously dark and bright) have not once left his face.

It takes an entirely different kind of strength to accept Yashoda’s own child, recently birthed; Vasudeva swallows tears as he cradles the girl to his chest. He will have to beg her forgiveness too, before the night is over. It seems particularly cruel that this sweet child might be the daughter Devaki could have longed for.

The little one’s hand curls against his chest, as if to soothe, and Vasudeva steels himself to cross the river one more time before Kansa can suspect his treachery again.


	2. Chapter 2

Balarama wonders over the new little brother he has, seemingly by some miracle. Yashoda cradles her new son with all the loving care a mother could, humming tender lullabies to soothe the infant’s occasional fussiness. Balarama watches, then when he is allowed to hold his sibling for himself, stares down into oddly familiar eyes.

He is too young yet to have the proper words to express the feeling which takes hold of him then. Baby Krishna wiggles in Balarama’s arms, giggling. Something tells Balarama that they shall all be in for trouble once his brother is old enough to walk. Let alone speak.

As it turns out, he is perfectly right and slightly off the mark at the same time. Krishna does not wait for his limbs to have easy range of motion to start trouble. Somehow, by some magic only infants possess or another kind of trick; Krishna finds his way into the kitchens and gleefully helps his tiny self to the freshly churned butter made by the gopis that morning. Balarama only hears of its aftermath. That Yashoda, fearful that her son was not in his bed, had searched the house high and low before setting foot within the kitchens.

There, apparently, she had witnessed Krishna’s (supposedly) charming smile and nearly fainted on the spot. Balarama is not sure whether to trust the tale or not. Babies, in his limited experience, are not usually capable of such things. But when he sees his brother later, swaddled and firmly within the confines of his bed, Balarama meets Krishna’s knowing eyes and grumbles to himself.

“Brat.” He says, because their mother is not here. And because he is eldest, which means Krishna, even at this tender age, should listen to him.

Balarama can only stare in dismay as Krishna only laughs, brilliant and joyous as only babies can.


	3. Chapter 3

The pranks do not end there. Raised among cows and cowherds, Kanha soon develops impossibly quick reflexes when it becomes necessary to run. Usually, he runs from those he has pranked; avoiding angry shouts, curses and threats with ease as he dives into the herd he is supposed to be looking after to lose his pursuers. Krishna steals the clothes of bathing women, seemingly on a whim, and does not return them until sometime later; long after their chores are supposed to be done and only bows his head when Yashoda scolds him, pretending at meekness.

(It will only be years later, when news of raids pass through Vrindavana, that the knowledge of how easily it could have been those women taken away by force will surface.)

Balarama, now taller, wider in the shoulders than many boys his age, still tries in vain to shepherd Kanha into proper manners.

“You embarrass us.” He snaps one evening, after discovering the trail of muddy footprints leading to his brother’s quarters and seeing Krishna’s bedraggled state for himself. Water still drips from Kanha’s curly hair, plastering to his skin, turns his clothes inappropriately sheer.

And Kanha only bats his long lashes in response, a smile tugging at his mouth.

_“Dau.”_ Kanha calls him gently. “How can I embarrass you if I am nowhere to be found?”

For a moment, heated and sharp, Balarama would like nothing more than to pitch sweet-faced Kanha into the river and watch him drift away. He pushes the urge aside, breathes slowly through his nose and shuts his eyes. When he opens them again Krishna is no longer smiling. Only watching him, curiously, to see what Balarama will do.

“Go and get clean.” Balarama grunts, already feeling a lifetime’s worth of exasperation. “And do _not_ let mother see you like that.”

That earns him a tinier smile, a lowering of Kanha’s mess of curls atop his head, and an almost respectful, “Yes, _Dau_.”


	4. Chapter 4

It is common knowledge among the _gopas_ that Kanha enjoys slacking off in his duties. Instead of his chores he will wander aimlessly, play his flute to charm the _gopis_ , steal into other houses besides his own to filch ghee from the kitchens. All this and more, somehow, Yashoda’s youngest son can accomplish in a single day and _still_ find time to rearrange Balarama’s things so that his elder brother’s room no longer resembles anything close to orderly.

Nanda Baba, for all his sagely wisdom, cannot make heads or tails of it and Yashoda takes matters into her own hands one day when Krishna plays one prank too many. Catching him turns out to be surprisingly easy. _Keeping_ him there, guiltily lingering near the pestle where fresh butter awaits, is something she accomplishes with a sharp call of his name and a firm hand clasping his ear.

Yashoda ties him to an unused pestle with as much rope as she can safely put hands on. Kanha pouts rather pathetically the entire time, watching her with betrayed eyes as she double knots his bonds.

_“Maa.”_ He pleads, twisting his arms carefully to see how far he can stretch the rope. “It will be the last time, I swear.”

Yashoda, had she perhaps gotten more sleep or not heard similar promises these past ten years, only snaps. “Do not lie to me. If I cannot teach you responsibility then I might at least impress upon you the consequences of your actions.”

Standing back, she checks over her work with grim satisfaction. It had not been so long ago that she needed to wrangle a bull into submission. Her son could not possibly free himself from ties that an animal several times his size and weight had struggled with.

“You will _stay_ there until I say otherwise.” Yashoda tells him sternly, not at all softening towards the pitiful expression Kanha appeals to her with. “If anyone should be fool enough to untie you, I will simply truss them up as well.” Then Yashoda leaves, confident that no more theft will take place while her son is immobilized.

Krishna waits until the tread of her steps fades before testing his bonds again. The rope barely moves, though he can still feel his own blood flowing through his fingers. Looking up he studies the way the pestle is anchored to the wall and ceiling, then the floor, and situates himself. Breathing slowly, Krishna shuts his eyes and braces himself, pulling against his restraints with all his strength.

It is remarkable in and of itself that no one hears the shattering of stone and wood as he heaves forward, jaw tense and muscles taunt. Unfortunately he falls on his side, dragging the pestle down with him. The ropes remain intact, securing him to what remains of the pestle. Krishna glances at them, more amused than truly upset, and begins to drag himself in an inching motion towards the kitchen entrance.

He will have to find _Dau_ and convince his brother to untie him, come what may. But, Krishna figures, he might as well make an adventure of it.


	5. Chapter 5

Of all the girls Krishna has played for, teased and wooed; none of them have ever come close to the feeling Radha inspires in him. Balarama warns him off, of course, like any good brother ought.

“Stay away from her.” _Dau_ grunts, the largest plow they have resting on his broad shoulders. No one else among the Yadavas can manage such a feat. Let alone remain clear-faced and have enough breath to berate Kanha. “Radha is a good girl. You will only make her miserable with your trouble.”

Radha is, indeed, a good person. Among the _gopas_ she is popular for her beauty, her kindness, how sweetly she can sing. With her fellow _gopis_ she is something of a leader, when they are want to choose one. Her hands weave the loveliest garlands, her smile enchants the younger children.

Krishna knows this and more, has reveled in the brief quirk of Radha’s mouth when they happen to pass one another. Has been the recipient of one of her many moods of baking, to which Yashoda only rolled her eyes when her son waxed poetic about Radha’s cooking.

“We might make a good sort of misery together, someday.” Krishna answers Balarama’s warning with the faintest of smiles, touched with a wistful sort of longing.

Perhaps it is that which gives Balarama pause. They are both nearly grown men; _Dau_ himself standing almost head and shoulders above everyone else. He has watched his brother flit from place to place like a restless bird, make more trouble than the gods themselves probably know what to do with. And while Kanha has never been _cruel_ to the girls he sometimes plucks kisses from as if they were flowers, he has never lingered over a woman so.

“She is not for you.” Balarama says at last, his tone a modicum softer than it usually is. He is rough by nature, already shaped by hard work and the stubborn sort of determination that can make mountains turn to plentiful fields before him. This is as gentle as he knows how to be and he thinks Kanha ought to be grateful for it.

Something tells him that perhaps his brother is grateful, if the odd flicker of some emotion over Kanha’s face is any indication.

“Perhaps.” Is all Kanha says and for once he does not try to get out of the day’s work.


	6. Chapter 6

The simple marvel of watching a woman brush out her hair is one Krishna could never tire of, he is sure. Such an act alone is, to witness it, an intimacy allowed only to those married. Yet Radha only smiles at him over her shoulder as she draws her comb through thick black tresses. As much as he wants to touch the gentle fall of hair over her back, he doesn’t. Only watches as she completes her work and sets about braiding the lovely length of it for sleep.

“You have something on your mind.” She observes, fingers working easily at their task. Her hands have turned the hardy, rough vegetation of their lands into flower crows. What challenge is this, to her?

Krishna finds it in himself to look away. If he does not then he will linger and be tempted to never speak.

“It is time for me to fulfill a promise.” He says, looking instead at the rumpled blanket they have shared. The nights with her have been sweet. Some of the most pleasant he has ever known.

Radha’s fingers do not still nor miss a beat as she answers. “You must go to Mathura.”

“Indeed.” Her lack of surprise does not, necessarily, surprise him. They have always been more than _this_. More than Krishna and Radha, Radha and Krishna. Stolen kisses and embraces, nights full of love and the music of his flute and her sweet laughter.

All treasured things must eventually end. This he knows, and she knows too.

Still, she is silent until her braid is finished. Only then does she turn to look at him, her eyes too full of knowing and the lack of anger or sadness in them is too much for Krishna to bear.

“They will only suffer without you.” Radha tells him softly, brushing her hand over his. “You will need to lead them once your work is done.”

“Perhaps.” Krishna says, already accepting the finality of it. How can he not? His purpose had already been charted out long before he’d been born. His existence is a promise, a warning, an end. Perhaps he’d hoped she might ask him not to go. Asked him to stay with her.

If she asked, Krishna could deny her nothing.

Radha does not ask. Only meets his eye and offers one of her knowing smiles.

“Think of me now and then. That is all I request.”

“I always think of you.” Krishna brings her hand up to his mouth one last time and kisses her knuckles, smiling when she laughs.


	7. Chapter 7

_“Dau.”_ He says, after, and his tone is serious enough that Balarama does not question where he has been or why. “We must go.”

Still, one of Balarama’s brows jumps up and he levels a hard stare at his little brother. Silver-tongued Kanha, his family’s fleet-footed menace, only looks grave beneath the scrutiny. It is a look Balarama has not seen since the incident by the river some year or so past. When the naga Kaliya had risen to strike at his brother for attempting to retrieve a missing ball and Kanha, Yashoda’s own dear heart, had grown to rival a mountain and stomped a dance upon the great creature’s head.

The memory carries with it the terrible sound of scales being crushed and bones snapping underfoot, only _barely_ muffled by the beat of his brother’s dance. Of Kailya’s wives rising from the riverbed as their husband began to die, pleading for mercy. Mercy Kanha had granted, though afterward he merely acted as his usual disobedient self.

It is that memory which stills Balarama’s tongue. Not out of fear, for whatever strength Kanha possesses he has never turned it against his own. But for the knowledge that _something_ , somewhere in the world, needs doing and Kanha will see it done regardless of what stands in his way.

So Balarama lifts his mace up onto one shoulder and only says, “Let us go then. Wherever this errand of yours may take us.”

“Home.” Krishna tells him somberly, eyes distant and his normally smiling mouth drawn into a frown. “We are going home.”


	8. Chapter 8

The palaces of Mathura are as one might expect from years of living under a tyrant’s grasp. No amount of ornaments, however well-crafted, manage to brighten the halls or soften the tense air of fear and dread. What staff Krishna passes are terrified, fleeing past him into rooms unknown; muttering prayers for mercy under their breath. As he makes his way to the dungeons Krishna thinks that he cannot blame those poor souls. Years they have lived under Kansa’s increasingly paranoid and cruel whimsy, unable to tell if the smallest of actions might bring favor or a swift and painful death.

He considers the courtyard and its six stains, one for each of his brothers who were never able to see the world with their own eyes. Six names burn in his memory. Names that no one, save perhaps for Devaki and Vasudeva, will ever think of or know.

The seventh stain is somewhat fresher. Different, as the poor maid who had been cast across the stone landed at a stranger angle. Where her body is, Krishna does not know.

He lays down his weapon at the door to the cells. Wipes what mess he can away so that he does not resemble what his parents might fear the most. For all Krishna has never laid eyes on the man and woman who made this earthly body he does not want their first impression of him to be one of violence. Of a man’s shadow in their doorway, a bloodied weapon in hand. They have lived through that enough for several lifetimes. He won’t make them suffer it again.

(Years and years after Mathura is fallen and Dwarka gone, they will say that Kansa and his nephew had struggled for days on end; tearing at each other as animals do. Or grabbing whatever weapon they could find. Each tale will be different, some more fantastical than others. Some will speak of divine weapons plucked from the very air. Several of splintered stone and blood painting the walls.

Kansa had risen, horrified at last to see the nephew he’d hoped to kill standing before him; within the very halls he’d thought he guarded so very well. Krishna put an end to him, plain and simple, and that would only ever be that.)

The lock gives under his fingers and Krishna tosses it aside, opening the door with as much care as the pulse in his veins would allow. The cell within is miserably dark, light from the torches barely reaching past the threshold. He can hear chains scraping the floor, rattling in protest at someone’s movement and lifts his gaze.

Lack of sunlight and regular meals have taken their toll upon the woman before him. Her hair falls in matted, drifting clumps; skin coated with sweat and dirt and filth. Lines of strain have been cut into her face, aging her several years, perhaps decades, past her true bearing. Yet despite the stale air of her cell, the obvious humiliation she had been made to endure, Devaki stands tall and regal in her chains; raising her chin defiantly at his form even as her eyes squint to see him better.

At her side, frozen in debate between the urge to stand or to fight is her husband; every bit as worn and weary as she. Vasudeva’s jaw tightens as he comes to his decision, rising to stand at Devaki’s side proudly. Protectively.

Krishna bows his head so that they cannot see the shimmer in his eyes, taking one careful step after another into the pitiful confines of their prison. There is barely enough space for the cot they have been allowed. If Dau were here, he would hardly be able to pace more than six strides from wall to wall.

_“Maa.”_ He says, voice low and reverent and as gentle as he can humanly make it. His ears catch the startled shift of their chains, a breathy gasp of surprise. Krishna kneels at Devaki’s feet, low enough that his forehead nearly kisses the filthy floor. His hands touch the tops of her feet with the same reverence one pays to an idol, to the Mother Goddesses who have made them all.

_“Maa.”_ He repeats softly, willing his voice not to crack. “It is done. You are free.”

For a time, nothing happens. Krishna waits, breathing slow and careful in the half-dark of the cell. Devaki’s fingers tremble when they first brush over his hair, needing to touch him so that she might know he is truly real. She does it again and then again, a hitched breath Krishna’s only warning before two sets of hands draw him up and he is being hugged and kissed. Vasudeva’s tears stain Krishna’s cheek every time and he gently eases the manacles from their wrists and feet before leading them into the hall outside.

Balarama stares, off-guard and uncertain, but even he softens when their parents reach for him as well.


	9. Chapter 9

A part of Kanha’s haste to return becomes obvious when it is announced that Rohini has gone into labor. Vasudeva’s face clouds with worry at the mention and though he can scarce conceive of leaving Devaki alone, he wishes also to support his second wife. Balarama feels that perhaps he should not be surprised when Kanha mentions that the two of them could go to Rohini together, as she would surely appreciate the presence of both her beloveds.

All in a curiously mild voice, at that. As though they have not spent hours reclaiming Mathura, routing Kansa’s men. As though Kanha did not leave their uncle’s broken, twisted body where it lay - unconcerned about funeral rites or laying the dead to rest.

{“But he was your uncle!” Arjuna will protest, years later. Eyes wide and disbelieving, too young to have been alive during Kansa’s reign and hesitant to believe tales of the man’s cruelty. “Your own kin!”

“No family of mine.” Krishna will tell him in that same mild voice, as though they are only discussing the weather. “No man or monster who lays hands on a woman or child with intent to harm them is blood to me. I would kill him again, if the gods brought him back.”

Partha, Kunti’s youngest son by her own flesh and blood, not yet the famous archer the world will know him as only trembles at the certainty in his cousin’s voice. At Krishna’s terribly calm eyes, which have never failed to lay a person bare to the soul when he chooses to look upon them.

“I could never.” Arjuna mumbles, ducking his head away from that frightening stare. “Not in a million years.”

And because his head is down he will not see Krishna’s expression shift and harden before the moment passes, softening once again for this person he loves so dearly. One of two, in all the world.

“Perhaps.” Krishna hums, twirling his flute. “Perhaps.”}

Rohini survives the birthing, much to the Yadavas’ joy. Free of Kansa’s cell she has access to those who know how to care for a woman after she has delivered, surrounded by faces she knows and loves. Devaki holds her sister-wife’s hand and mutters grateful prayers to the gods as the little one is cleaned and blessed. Vasudeva, it is said, cannot speak a word for the sheer amount of emotion roiling through him.


	10. Chapter 10

Outside of those already present, no one is allowed near the chamber where Rohini takes her rest. Guards are doubled, Yashoda orders the kitchens into a frenzy like a general and Nanda Baba helps wherever he can. Kanha, always at the edge of chaos, waits for his chance to see his newborn sister and seizes it as soon as he is able.

It takes nothing at all to scale the lattice and slide in through the window after so many years of practice. Sitra, little Subhadra, focuses on him the instant Krishna lifts her from her cradle. Hours of wailing have worn on her poor throat, new to the world and previously untested. Her nurses have given up for the night and Rohini’s exhaustion prevents her from rising to make the attempt at soothing her daughter.

“Hush, little one.” Krishna coos at her, bringing Subhadra to lay against his chest. Her tiny fists curl against his skin, fist in his hair, and hang on for dear life. He pats her back gently, rocking now as he knows mothers do when their infants cry.

“Hush.” He tells her again in a gentle whisper, elated as though she were his very own child. “It has been a long time, I know. But you are here at last and so am I. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Subhadra quiets, pressing her little face into the crook of his neck and Krishna continues to rock back and forth so that she might be comforted. Once fatigue from hours of crying has settled in he adjusts her carefully so that she does not inhale his hair. Big eyes peer up at him, blinking in confusion, and though Subhadra has not a trace of a rakshasa’s claws or horns Krishna thinks he can see a little of the woman she’d been in her previous life.

“You are a long way from Kosala.” Krishna murmurs as he gently toys with her tiny fingers. They curl around his own with remarkable strength and he almost laughs. “I am not Rama, little one, but we are similar enough that I hope you do not mind his promise being fulfilled like this. I may not be the _best_ sibling, but for you I shall try.”

Subhadra gurgles delightedly and brings his finger up to her mouth as if to bite it. This time Krishna allows himself to laugh, to revel in all the possibilities her little frame holds.

Balarama peeks in later, scowling when he sees his little brother making silly noises at their baby sister. Krishna only looks up at him with a smile on his face, frustratingly unrepentant as always.

“You should let her sleep.” Balarama chastises, stepping into the room slow and carefully so as not to wake their parents next door. The thought is still strange to him. Their parents, besides Nanda Baba and Yashoda, whom both he and Kanha still love. Alive and well, now within reach after so long apart.

“She would not sleep.” Kanha reminds him gently, bouncing little Sitra in his arms with perfect ease. “But she is calming down now. Would you like to hold her?”

Balarama stops, hovering over his brother so that he can look down at his sister’s curious face. She blinks up at him, mouth set in a little ‘o’. Something warms in his chest and Balarama does not know what to do with that. He reaches for her, hesitant and half-afraid she will break as soon as his hand touches her.

It does not happen. Kanha guides their sister up into Balarama’s arms and smiles as it begins to sink in for Balarama that they have another addition to their family.

( _Dau_ does not stare at their sister as though she is made of gold, per say. Only as though she were a star which had settled in his hand, curious and beyond understanding - yet infinitely precious. It is a memory Krishna will tuck away for years to come, for teasing and for reassurance.)

“She is free.” Krishna remarks in the quiet of the room, watching his siblings interact with each other for the first time. “The first of us who will never know Kansa or his horrors. Truly free.”

“She will stay that way.” Balarama insists quietly, protective now that he has held Subhadra for himself and felt how fragile she is. “As free as reason allows. Without,” he adds dryly, meeting Krishna’s eye. “Your nonsense.”

Throwing dignity happily out the window, Kanha only chuckles.


End file.
